


A Crystal Twist of Fate

by TheSoupDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...with a whole lot of flirting going on..., Alternative First Meeting, Greg and Mycroft alternative first meeting, Last minute Christmas shopping is not always a complete and total nightmare..., M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, Mystrade Holiday 2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-09-25 16:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17124680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon
Summary: Set in aslightlyalternative universe where all our boys do what they usually do, but Mycroft and Greg have not met...yet.......Well...that might be just about to change…!





	1. A Series of Unfortunate and Rapidly Unfolding Events...

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Kristall-Scherben bringen Glück](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288966) by [StarsAndStitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches)



> This was going to be my entry for the Mystrade Advent Calendar. Unfortunately, (and understandably, given the circumstances) the advent calendar had to be cancelled, so here is my little advent offering on AO3 instead!!  
> It was also supposed to be finished by now, but real life (mainly in the form of the C-word) messed that plan right up, big time. ;)
> 
> My huge and grateful thanks, as ever, to the sparkling, shiny Christmas bauble that is [StarsAndStitches](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches); not only for her excellent and enthusiastic beta-reading, but also for the lovely, twinkly cover art which she made me - especially for this story!!
> 
> (Update: And look, crikey, I've only managed to put it into the text for you to admire as well!) ;)

 

Liberty’s was packed. Absolutely packed. And thank God, Greg thought, he was nearly out of there. He had promised his sister a picture of the spectacular Christmas tree that stretched up from the ground floor almost to the skylight; its deep green magnificence set off by the drapery of thousands of sparkling soft buttery-yellow lights and glittering baubles of all shades, and what looked like hundreds of those box-shaped, fake presents in tinny-looking foiled wrapping paper. Greg eyed those and felt sorry for the poor bastard who’d had to wrap them for the tree. That kind of paper was a right pig to fold and it never creased neatly. He set his bags down carefully at his feet and got his phone out to take a picture for Angie. Immediately, he realised he wasn’t going to be able to do it justice from this angle - he simply couldn’t fit it all into the phone screen. He glanced around. The coast was clear directly behind him, so he stepped backwards a little and to one side to avoid a cluster of woolly-hatted Japanese tourists, also admiring the tree and pointing out the painted plasterwork. Greg faced the tree, taking aim again. _‘Bloody hell,’_ he thought, ‘still too bloody big!’ Slightly irritably, he picked up his bags in one hand, clutching his phone in the other, and still looking in consternation at the massive great tree, he stepped blindly backwards into what he knew only moments before had been a clear space.

Alas, his foot came down on a tiny, tissue-wrapped booby trap and something small and hard and round gave way immediately under his heel with a horrid twinkling crunch. _“Jesus Chr—!”_ he yelped in shock, as he leapt away instinctively, managing to stop himself from actually saying anything worse aloud just in time - and also managing not to lose his balance or send anyone flying as he jumped away; but the damage was already done. _“What the—?”_ he started to say quietly to himself, looking down and behind him at the crumpled and flattened bright red tissue ball which he had just crushed under his boot heel - as simultaneously the man now standing directly behind him said smoothly, “Oh dear…it would seem you’ve just made rather a good job of that...”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Ten minutes earlier, one Mycroft Holmes had been in the Christmas department, selecting some small decorations for his family’s Christmas stocking gifts. He’d found some fantastic martini glasses for his father that he was exceedingly pleased with. However, as a result, he was now running late to meet Sherlock to decide on the contents of the Christmas hamper that they were giving to their parents as a joint gift, and so he realised that he needed to fire off a quick text to warn his brother that he would be approximately 13 minutes late. He couldn’t abide tardiness. He had known the place would be busy, _(obviously!)_ , however, he hadn’t bargained for quite so many people still shopping at this late hour. _Hadn’t these people got lives to lead,_ he thought grumpily. He went down on the escalator to the ground floor, vaguely admiring the massive tree that he had seen ten times already, and en route to the ground, he spotted a tiny space across the room where he might be able to pause for a moment and just check his pocket watch…at least there would be one when those Japanese tourists had finished gawping at the monstrous tree and the ornately painted plasterwork.

He reached the foot of the escalator and made his way across to the small person-free bit of floor space that he’d seen from above. Encumbered by bags and struggling to hold onto the narrow box under his arm - which contained his father’s new Derek Rose pyjamas - Mycroft retreated behind the tourists and the tree, and towards the display of scarves and hats.

It was an extremely small space indeed, but he stepped into it and waited for the right moment. Surely the tourists would move on soon? How many photographs of a Christmas tree did one need? Suddenly the moment came - directly in front of Mycroft, one of the men asked his wife if she had seen where the lavatories were. She didn’t know, but Mycroft did and was delighted to tell him; in his native language of course, accepting the man’s startled thanks with an equally polite bow and a courteous smile. Three of the men left the group to seek the loos, leaving Mycroft with his blessed space - and which he intended to claim as his own immediately by setting his bags and boxes down in an artfully arranged construction/barrier-against-humanity. 

“Thank Heavens for small mercies,” he thought, appreciating the space to stand still for a moment in this Hell hole of frantic Christmas cheer.  
Of course, the one disadvantage of wearing a pocket watch as opposed to a wrist watch was that one first needed to fish the thing out of one’s watch pocket to read it, and this required a free hand. He set down all his bags on the floor before him. On the top, he carefully placed the smallest of the rectangular paper bags containing the delicate Christmas bauble he’d just bought, and, pausing briefly first to make sure it wasn’t going to fall over, he then positioned the long, thin pyjama box down at the side of his bag-and-parcel pyramid to wedge the whole thing upright. It really _should_ have held, but just as Mycroft retrieved his pocket watch and opened it, and while both his hands were engaged, a fast-moving woman walking quickly in order to catch her bus, dodged towards his construction to avoid an idiot that was walking backwards - _actually walking backwards!_ \- towards him, also trying to get a photograph of the Liberty’s Christmas tree.

In a series of unfortunate and rapidly unfolding events, as she passed, the rushing woman bumped the pyjama box with her own bags of shopping and carried on going; the pyjama box abruptly toppled over onto its face, destabilising the rest of the bags and so the smallest paper bag containing the bauble wobbled, tipped and then fell over on the top of the pile and the jaunty tissue-wrapped bauble rolled out and then bounced joyfully down the side of the cascading bag mountain…only to come to a sad and sorry end beneath the clumsy, idiotic, backward-walking boot heel.

 _“Jesus Chr—!”_ said the owner of the destructive boot. He muttered something else as he looked down and behind to assess the damage, while Mycroft gathered up his unscathed bags and the pyjama box, cursing inwardly. “Oh dear...” he said aloud, thinking black thoughts, but slotting the box under his arm crossly, trying to control the bag of chutneys he’d just bought from the food hall and not looking at the man yet. “...It would seem you’ve just made rather a good job of that…” he added, thinking, _‘You stupid, oafish, idiotic—‘_ and getting his frosty glare in place for when he actually made eye contact with the clumsy fool. Meanwhile, the man had helpfully bent down to pick up the crushed bauble, still mostly encased in its tissue wrapping, and now he straightened up, holding it out to Mycroft apologetically. However, when Mycroft looked up and directly at him, all his boiling, seething contempt dissipated like steam and Mycroft’s mind was knocked off course, continuing its rant in a helpless re-directed blurt... _‘—ridiculous—_ Oh! _—gorgeous vision of silver-foxy-loveliness!’_  
“Oh Jesus!” the man gulped, his face a picture of stunned, mortified dismay, with huge and horrified puppy-dog eyes. “Was this yours? I’m-I’m so sorry! I’m so, _so_ sorry! I didn’t—” he stopped. Then he glanced down and realised the smallest bag on top of the other man’s pile was the one from whence it had come. “Oh _Christ!_ It’s from Liberty’s!” he yelped in horror. “What was it? How much was it? Just tell me the damage! It wasn’t some bloody Scarkofski crystal, was it?”  
Mycroft laughed. “It’s _Swarovski,_ ” he said, but he said it politely. He had already automatically taken in his companion’s smart but not expensive coat; his scarf - which was from Next, and the gloves poking out of his pocket were from Next too - John had the same scarf and Mycroft recognised the unusual colour of the gloves from the model in the Next shop window that he had walked past earlier. This was not someone who usually shopped at Liberty’s. And this was therefore too good an opportunity to miss. The devil in him rose up and he deliberately pulled a _bad news, I’m afraid_ sort of face. “It was over £150, I’m sorry to say…” he said, very regretfully.  
If it was even conceivably possible, his companion suddenly looked ten times worse. He muttered something inaudible under his breath, but Mycroft was also a champion lip-reader. That had looked a great deal like, “Oh eff and bugger,” Mycroft thought, amused, but he expertly managed to keep a straight face.  
“Look, let me replace it, it’s the least I can do,” the man continued and once again he held out the broken bauble - still in its tissue ball - to Mycroft, who held open the bag it had been in. Greg placed it gently inside. Mycroft smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m only teasing - it wasn’t really Swarovski at all. It was just one of Liberty’s own, from upstairs in the Christmas shop. Please don’t worry about replacing it. It was an accident.”  
Greg put his own bags down as the cheap plastic handles were cutting into his wrist. “No, I insist,” he said honourably, looking straight at Mycroft. Then he breathed out hard in a comical show of pure relief and smiled. “Well, thank Christ for that,” he added, continuing, “but no, I do insist.” He was very firm about it. And then inspiration struck him. “…I was going up there now, anyway,” he lied.  
Mycroft smiled again. It had been rather a lovely bauble and he knew his mother would have really liked it. He actually did want to get another one to replace it. Plus opportunities like this one didn’t come along very often. But he paused momentarily. He was already definitely going to be quite late for Sherlock.  
Greg read the signs. “Are you in a rush?” he asked.  
“No..it’s just…I’m supposed to be meeting my brother somewhere else at 8pm,” said Mycroft, guiltily. He abhorred lateness in others and was never avoidably late himself. “I’m running a little late already…”  
Greg also felt that chances like this didn’t come along very often. He glanced at his watch. “Mmm. Well, you’ve got barely two minutes to get there!” he said. “Can’t you just text ‘im and say you’ve been delayed in Liberty’s?” he suggested, daringly.  
Mycroft found the idea absolutely enchanting. Sherlock would be _so_ intrigued. “Do you know, I will…” replied Mycroft and he did just that, using Greg’s exact words. _’DELAYED AT LIBERTY’S,’_ he texted. _’SHAN’T BE LONG. M’_ That’ll get him going, he thought mischievously.  
Sherlock must have been waiting with his phone in his hand. Instantly, he texted back a single question mark.  
Mycroft smiled. That had _definitely_ got him going, he thought, delighted.  
At the instant chime of the phone, Greg remarked, “Blimey! That was quick! What did he say? Is it ok?”  
Mycroft smiled down at his phone where the three dots were already dancing as Sherlock composed another rapid fire text. When it arrived, he read it, and then he looked up at Greg. “He says, ‘Absolutely fine, no problem, take as long as you need.’ ”

Of course it had said nothing of the sort, but his companion didn’t need to know that.

Mycroft slipped his phone into his inner pocket, ignoring its indignant vibrations as Sherlock texted again. “Well. If we’re going to go shopping for Christmas baubles together, we should at least know each other’s names…” said Mycroft with a smile.  
His companion laughed. “I’m Greg…well, _Gregory._ But everyone calls me Greg.”  
Mycroft held out his hand and Greg took it. “My name is Mycroft; how do you do?’ he said as he shook firmly.  
_“Mycroft!”_ exclaimed Greg, shaking firmly back. “I’ve never met a Mycroft before. That’s…very _unusual!”_  
Mycroft smiled. “Yes, it is, rather,” he mused.  
“How d’yer spell it?” asked Greg, rolling the name around in his mind.  
“As it sounds,” replied Mycroft, but he spelt it anyway. “There weren’t that many of us at school!” he added.  
Greg laughed again and it was _delightful._ “I c’n imagine! I was one of several _Gregorys,”_ he said, still grinning.  
_’But none of them as gorgeous as you, I’ll wager…’_ thought Mycroft.

 

Gregory gestured up towards the escalator as he picked up his bags again. “Well! After you,” he said, with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've solved the multi-chapter issue! (With StarsAndStitches' advice!) And I have also learnt this new nugget of AO3 knowledge, which I'm sharing with the uninitiated....if it doesn't work on your mobile, go off and do it on your computer! Suddenly, like a miracle, it works! 
> 
> And anyone who reads/speaks German, you have a treat in store very soon! ;)


	2. But, as they say in Germany, “Shards bring luck!”…Crystal shards, in this case…

Gregory gestured up towards the escalator as he picked up his bags again. “After you,” he said, with a smile.  
‘Excellent…just as I’d hoped,’ thought Mycroft, murmuring his thanks with a delicate little nod of his head and stepping towards it. That was _exactly_ what he’d wanted. 

And so, perfectly in line with his plan, Mycroft stood elegantly poised on the escalator slightly higher up than his new companion, one foot on one step and the other on the one above, holding all his shopping in one hand and with the pyjama box held tightly under his arm. The other hand he slid naturally into his trouser pocket, drawing back his open coat and his suit jacket to do so, seemingly inadvertently displaying his new pre-Christmas trim figure and his very shiny pocket watch chain. He knew it was a feature of his style of dress that some people apparently liked, and he could tell from the way this fellow had been discreetly looking at him that he fell into this category. His height, Mycroft knew, was one of his best physical features, and this man also liked _tall,_ he was absolutely sure of it…and of course, he was right on all counts; his clothing, his height, his poise and his posture had all served to grab Greg’s attention and hold it.  
“So, er…what was the damage really?” asked his companion, arranging himself and his bags on the stair below, looking up at Mycroft both surreptitiously and not so surreptitiously.  
Mycroft had been pretending to look over at the Christmas tree in order to show off his long neck. _“Damage?”_ he asked, dubiously. He turned back to Gregory, arching an eyebrow, somewhat confused by the remark.  
Greg shifted the plastic bag handles on his wrist. “Y’know, ‘ow much was it?” he translated.  
“Oh, I _see!_ I believe that particular bauble was £9.95…” replied Mycroft politely. Of course he knew exactly how much it was, but didn’t want to appear blunt. There was a brief pause in their conversation and in it, Greg saw that the right moment for the fishing and netting of vital information - under the guise of making innocent conversational remarks - had just arrived.  
“So…who was it for then, girlfriend?…Wife?” Greg asked, going for the big one and looking nonchalantly over at the tree again as they sailed past it.  
Mycroft blinked. _’Oh!’_ he thought, thrilled, _’He’s asking!’_ But being Mycroft Holmes, nothing of this showed on his face and he recovered superbly. “Ah! No, no, nothing like that at all, really… nothing like that…” he replied in a smooth, easy tone, “it was for my mother, actually. She loves that sort of quaint frivolity.”  
Greg grinned. “Blimey, you’ve got such a way with words! Where are you from, 1887?”  
Mycroft actually burst out laughing. Naturally, he had not missed the heralding of a significant moment either, and had been thinking quickly about what to say. Now, caught off guard with Greg’s joke, he blurted it out. “No, but really, the baubles upstairs are truly lovely; fantastic, even…if you like that sort of thing…if _you’re_ looking for…something special for a…. _special someone_ ….” It had sounded _so_ much better in his head and he could have immediately kicked himself for the obvious blatant obvious stupidity of that blatantly obvious statement. He grimaced internally. _’Oh, and that was beautifully subtle, you clumsy great ox!’_ he thought to himself witheringly.  
Greg, however, gave a little internal whoop of delight. _’Single, eh?!’_ he thought, gleefully. _’Great!’_ He smiled and then, equally smoothly, he said, “I’d really like to get something special for my sister, actually. She’s been a real star this year. I’d like to get her something really nice.”  
Mycroft could have hugged himself with delight and he replied, “Oh, I think you’ll find something upstairs, then. The decorations are all utterly charming.”  
Mycroft’s phone had been buzzing busily in his pocket and was still going. He drew it out and glanced discreetly at the screen where Sherlock’s latest missive read, _’WHOM HAVE YOU ACCOSTED?’_  
Mycroft typed back as quickly as possible. _’NEVER YOU MIND,’_ he wrote, _’JUST WAIT THERE FOR ME, I’LL BE ALONG SHORTLY.’_ He put his phone onto silent vibrate only and slipped it back into his inside coat pocket.  
“Have you got much left to get?” asked Greg, somewhat hopefully, as they got off at the top and then got back on the other escalator on that floor to go up to the next. He was thinking he would quite like a bit more time with this enigmatic, gorgeous, lanky beanpole.  
“No,” replied Mycroft, dashing his hopes, “I’m just about done…thank the Lord. Only a few more items to get and I’m away.”  
“Oh…from here, you mean?” asked Greg, eyebrows raised, meaning; from Liberty’s. Mycroft hesitated, torn between the truth and a lie. He decided on the truth, as his mobile was silently going berserk in his pocket and he would really have to check it again in a moment. “Ah, no…when I said I was meeting my brother…we’ve arranged to meet…somewhere else…in another shop, to choose the contents of a food hamper for our parents.”  
‘Oh yeah, _‘going to meet your brother,’_ ’ Greg thought, remembering what his new friend had said. “Right…so…are you going out somewhere special with your brother afterwards?” he asked.  
Mycroft turned to look at him, frowning a little in puzzlement. “No, why do you ask?”  
“Well, you’re dressed so… _smartly!”_ Greg explained. “I, er—I thought maybe you were going to a formal occasion or somethin’ after you’d finished shoppin’…?”  
“Oh! No. No, I—I always dress like this,” Mycroft replied.  
_’Blimey!’_ thought Greg, _’Really?!’_ But all he said was, “Oh. Well. You’re one snappy dresser then, if this is your everyday wear!…” _Snappy dresser, fuck me,_ he was thinking. _Jesus, what an understatement. He must be something in government, something really official._ Then he asked, “….What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
Mycroft didn’t bat an eyelid over that one. “Oh, office work, clerical…very boring!” he responded nonchalantly, with a smile, sounding incredibly genuine. “And what about you?” he returned, already studying his new companion and thinking about it.  
“I’m in the police,” said Greg.  
“The Met?” asked Mycroft, knowing he surely was by his accent, but wanting to appear normal.  
Greg grinned. “Yeah! That’s it! That's the one!” he said, pleased with Mycroft’s astuteness.  
There was a short pause as they neared the top of the escalator and Mycroft discreetly retrieved his phone.

Sherlock had resorted to using WhatsApp now, having had no reply from his SMS texts. He knew Mycroft would have his 4G on. There were quite a few messages, but the first new one from barely a few minutes earlier read; _’BUYING SHERRY WITHOUT YOU.’_ Mycroft snorted in amusement. Two could play at the winding-up-my-brother game, he thought. He swiped right to collect the words on the screen and replied; _’GOOD, DO CARRY ON.’_ He had to stifle an undignified laugh as he pressed ‘send’. Sherlock would go ballistic at that. Sherry was _so_ Mycroft’s thing after all.  
One minute after the sherry text, Sherlock had messaged him again. _’LOOKING AT CHEESE,’_ he’d written, and then, not even a minute later, he’d sent, _’CHOSEN THE ROQUEFORT.’_  
Usually, Mycroft would have reacted to that. _It takes more than a minute to decide on cheese,_ was what he would have thought under normal circumstances, but right now he wasn’t under normal circumstances. Almost gleefully, he swiped that message to contain the words in his reply again and wrote back, _’MARVELLOUS!’_  
There were several more longer messages that had already come through from Sherlock, sent one after the other, all with the same time stamp, but Mycroft was almost at the top step so he had to put his phone back without reading them and pay attention to making an elegant step off the escalator.  
He got off and waited for Greg to join him. Greg smiled at him warmly as he stepped off, and together they went in to brave the Christmas department.

 

The decorations were exactly as Mycroft had described them - both lovely and truly fantastic. Greg was really glad he’d come up here after all. Liberty’s had really outdone themselves this year with these decs and it was worth seeing them, he thought, admiring a charming tree decoration that was an 8cm long, sequinned and bejewelled, glittery red London bus. He pointed it out to Mycroft, who was standing next to him, looking up at all the varied and colourful decorations hanging from the wall of display hooks. “Look!” Greg said, grinning, and Mycroft turned his head to see. “Are they aiming for any particular type of buyer, d’ya think?” Greg joked, then he spotted another one lower down and nudged Mycroft’s elbow to alert him to it - a sparkling golden glass miniature of the Big Ben clocktower. Greg quite liked the Big Ben. And it was a very reasonable £12.99. “Hey, I’m gonna get that one for my sister!” he said, deciding instantly. He claimed one and let it dangle from his index finger by its gold hanging ribbon. “Where’s yours?” he asked, scanning them all, meaning the one he had broken downstairs. 

Mycroft knew exactly where he had found the first bauble in the glittering multi-colour display, but now he was up here looking at them all again, he saw another he quite liked. It was a tiny, sequinned fabric, tree-decoration version of a glass of Gin and Tonic, complete with shiny plastic slice of lemon. He snorted with laughter when he saw it. “I say, I’d quite missed this one!” he exclaimed, reaching for it. “I think my mother would find that rather funny,” he added, and he snagged it from the display spontaneously, along with an exact replacement for the broken one that Greg had stepped on. That one was a beautiful, tiny bauble, shaped rather like a fattened teardrop; it was clear glass with a frosted coating around the widest part and white and silver glitter around the base. It was around 6 cm long and 3cm in diameter at its thickest part, and it really did sparkle like expensive crystal in the bright overhead lights. Mycroft held his hand high and rubbed his thumb and index finger softly together so the bauble spun and caught the light, bouncing it back.  
_“Wow,”_ said Greg, admiringly, “that’s _really_ pretty!…So sparkly!…C’n see why yer liked it…yer sure it’s definitely not Scarkofski though, yeah?” he asked with a smile, referring to their exchange earlier.  
“No, I’m sure it’s definitely _still_ Swa _rov_ ski,” purred Mycroft, delighted, looking up at him from the bauble without moving his head, his eyes glinting with the recognition of a shared private joke.  
Greg began to smile wider. “Whatever you say!” he shrugged cheerfully, looking straight at Mycroft, now an actual grin surfacing through his pronunciation of the words. From the beaming smile that then remained on his face and the mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes, he really might as well have said, _“God, I don’t ‘alf fancy you!”_  
Mycroft smiled warmly back, reading this, and just as he did so - mentally returning the compliment - his stomach did something really, _really_ strange. It seemed to jump and turn inside his body somehow, as if it were some kind of ludicrous visceral pancake flipped up and over in a cosmic frying pan wielded by Cupid.  
“Give it ‘ere, then, an’ I’ll get that one for you,” said Greg, amiably, reaching out for it and completely unaware of Mycroft’s internal organ acrobatics.  
“Thank you,” said Mycroft, and naturally, as he passed it to Greg, their fingers touched briefly. Neither of them said anything, but both felt the initial spark of attraction roar into life as if someone had turned up the heat. Greg took and held Mycroft’s bauble carefully on a second hooked finger, along with the Big Ben decoration he was buying for himself, and put his shopping bags down on the floor for a moment to slip his other hand into his inside jacket pocket for his wallet. It had got very busy near the display wall again, and there were lots of frantic last-minute shoppers around them, so Mycroft and Greg had been pushed unavoidably closer together to make way. As Mycroft was standing so close to him, Greg’s actions of opening his jacket and delving inside at that moment to bring out his wallet, served to waft the smell of his aftershave or cologne across to Mycroft, and the sensitive and formidable Holmes nose caught the slightest whiff of a most delightful and unusual scent. In the instant that Greg stood opening his wallet and looking down at it, deciding on card or cash, Mycroft almost instinctively leaned slightly closer to chase the delicious fragrance. “What _is_ that scent you’re wearing?” he asked, without thinking, intrigued. It wasn’t one that he knew.  
‘Christ, he’s smelling me now! That’s one more step up on the ladder!’ thought Greg, delighted. Oh, this was going great, he thought, and he said, “It’s called Grey Flannel, I get it from Harrods.” He thought about it for a second and then he just came out and asked. “Actually…” he paused, slowly taking out a crumpled twenty pound note to pay for his two items as he spoke, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I was gonna go there next…I wonder if you’d like to…er, come with me? We could…get a coffee or somethin’?” He glanced up at Mycroft as he said the last few words to test the water, and saw that his new companion was looking a little startled. _Bugger!_ thought Greg, _I’ve gone too far with that,_ and he garbled quickly, “I've gotta get some Grey Flannel as a present for myself for Christmas and—oh wait, that sounded…weird.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Ahhh, what it is, _is;_ my sister Angie lives in Cornwall, and she can’t get hold of Grey Flannel very easily unless she buys it online, but a’course, _then_ she 'as to pay for extortionate postage and packing, so _I’m_ gonna go and buy some for myself - from her, like - and then she’ll…er…she’ll give me the money when she sees me. She said to me, if you go shopping, go there and get some. For yourself. It’s sort of a joke, y’see; I give her my present to myself from her, which I’ve bought, she gives me the money for it and goes into another room to…er…wrap it up secretly…” here he grinned sheepishly, “….and then she gives it back to me after lunch to open.”  
Mycroft laughed politely at Greg’s elaborate explanation but he seemed a little distracted. “Sounds very civilised. Not like my family - absolute heathens. Brother, especially.”  
Greg smiled, his heart pounding. Oh, yes, _the brother._ Shit. Greg had forgotten. Mycroft was meeting his brother. So it was going to be a ‘no’ then, of course, even if he'd wanted to. He was going to just politely ignore the invitation to go together, Greg thought, regretfully. He dug a little despondently in his trouser pocket for some loose change. “D’yer wanna…go an’ pay?’ he suggested, after a moment, finding a couple of quid, loose change and some fluff, and he gestured with his head towards the queue for the tills. ‘Sod it,’ he thought regretfully, about the non-answered invitation, ‘an’ that was going so well, an’ all.’  
“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Mycroft vaguely, in reply to the paying suggestion, and Greg saw suddenly that he looked a little pink-cheeked. Maybe there was hope yet, then. As they walked towards the till, threading their way through the crowds, Mycroft stopped suddenly and said in a rush, “Look, I’d love to come to Harrods with you, I was just a little… _surprised_ by what you said, because that’s actually where I’m going next too.”  
Greg stopped too and turned to look at him in pleased surprise. “You’re not just sayin’ that?” he asked quickly, thinking of how he had lied about his intention to go up to the Christmas shop just to: _one,_ do the honourable thing and replace the bauble, but definitely _two,_ get to spend a bit longer with this intriguing and gorgeous bloke. “Were you _really_ gonna go there next?” He looked so hopeful.  
Mycroft smiled, his cheeks definitely going pinker. And the tips of his ears too, Greg noticed delightedly - just how charming was that, he thought.  
“Yes, I—I really am,” said Mycroft, “and in fact, _that’s_ where I’m meeting my brother - we’re selecting the contents of a food hamper for our parents as a joint Christmas present from us both…actually he’s been doing it while we’ve been—erm….”  
Greg grinned again at his hesitant pause. “Gettin’ to know each other?” he filled in, cheekily.  
Mycroft spluttered laughter. “ Well, that's- _yes!"_ he said. “But buying important and vital Christmas decorations too, of course…”  
“A’course!” agreed Greg jovially. They stepped forward so they were at the end of the queue for the till. “Shouldn’t you let your brother know your Harrods’ E.T.A.?” he asked, thinking, _‘A food hamper from Harrods! Blimey.’_ The very idea of the cost of a Harrods’ food hamper made his wallet quiver, go pale and feel a bit faint.  
Mycroft thought guiltily of his phone in his pocket, which he belatedly realised had gone eerily still a while ago. “Mmmm, yes I suppose I should…” he said dubiously, trying to think of all the connotations of ‘letting Sherlock know’… _but know what, exactly?_ That he had met a most attractive, funny and gorgeously intelligent man who had stepped on his bauble under the Liberty Christmas tree and now they were discussing going shopping together…? His courage and all his varied diplomatic powers were failing miserably. 

He took his phone from his pocket, thinking hard. As he had suspected, there had been a barrage of texts from Sherlock, mostly telling Mycroft what he had bought, including a definite jibe at the seriousness of the task of selecting items for the food hamper. _'JUST CHUCKED IN A HUGE PACKET OF SHERBET DIP-DABS FOR YOU AND FATHER,’_ he’d sent…and then there had been nothing from Sherlock for the last ten minutes. Why not? That was worrying. It was now 8.27pm.

With a slowly imploding horror, Mycroft scrolled down the list of vaguely abusive messages until he saw that the last message from Sherlock read, _’FINISHED. BORED. RESERVED IT ALL. COMING TO FIND YOU.’_  
‘Oh _God, no!’_ thought Mycroft desperately. _’No-no-no-no-no,_ please _don’t!’_ Mycroft Holmes very rarely panicked, but here he was, panicking.  
Greg was saying something, but Mycroft was texting frantically for all he was worth. “Ah, _sorry,_ one moment,” he said distractedly, his hands suddenly all thumbs as he struggled to type as quickly as possible in an attempt to avert the impending disaster. “I’ve just got to text my—”  
Then Greg glanced away from him, over to the side and said suddenly and loudly in a friendly, surprised tone, “Crikey! Bloody 'ell, _’ello!_ Fancy bumpin’ into you in ’ere!” and Mycroft, startled, clutching his phone in both hands, looked up to see his brother striding purposefully towards them - with an unbearably smug look on his face.  
“How did you find me?” gasped Mycroft guiltily as he drew closer, as if caught red-handed at the scene of a crime, which in a way, he was.  
Greg - the evidence - jerked visibly beside him. _“What?!”_ he said, looking at Mycroft. And then he realised. “You two _know_ each other?!” he gasped in surprise, looking wide-eyed from Mycroft to Sherlock and back to Mycroft.  
Sherlock had reached them. _“Know_ each other?” he growled caustically in reply to Greg, and, looking pointedly at Mycroft he lifted his chin and frowned. “Haven’t you told him who you are yet?” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> I've solved the multi-chapter issue! (With StarsAndStitches' advice!) And I have also learnt this new nugget of AO3 knowledge, which I'm sharing with the uninitiated....if it doesn't work on your mobile, go off and do it on your computer! Suddenly, like a miracle, it works! 
> 
> And anyone who reads/speaks German, you have a treat in store very soon! ;)


End file.
